“Arthur, sir. I come from Devonshire.”
“Don't call me 'sir,' you young muff. How old are you?”
“Thirteen.”
“Can you sing?”
The poor boy was trembling and hesitating. Tom struck in—“You be hanged, Tadpole. He'll have to sing, whether he can or not, Saturday twelve weeks, and that's long enough off yet.”
“Do you know him at home, Brown?”
“No; but he's my chum in Gray's old study, and it's near prayer-time, and I haven't had a look at it yet.—Come along, Arthur.”
Away went the two, Tom longing to get his charge safe under cover, where he might advise him on his deportment.
“What a queer chum for Tom Brown,” was the comment at the fire; and it must be confessed so thought Tom himself, as he lighted his candle, and surveyed the new green-baize curtains and the carpet and sofa with much satisfaction.
“I say, Arthur, what a brick your mother is to make us so cozy! But look here now; you must answer straight up when the fellows speak to you, and don't be afraid. If you're afraid, you'll get bullied. And don't you say you can sing; and don't you ever talk about home, or your mother and sisters.”